


Bloody handprints

by pleasebekidding



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/pseuds/pleasebekidding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alaric died. Again. Damon wasn’t there. And Alaric’s washing his own blood off the walls and floor of the Gilbert house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody handprints

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to my lovely beta, Saltzatore.  
> And can we please stop just constantly killing Alaric? Or at least, can we let him react? He is human.

It’s 1 am, and silent, in the Gilbert house, when Alaric thinks he’s finally drunk enough bourbon to face the task ahead of him. Takes a bucket from the laundry and fills it with soap and water (cold – he knows cold water gets blood out of clothing, hot will set the stain – also, hates that he knows that, hates how often he’s washed blood out of his clothes. He hopes cold water works as well on walls and wooden floorboards), finds some towels old enough to throw away once he’s done, and starts.

Alaric’s memories of the last few hours are worse than foggy. Every time he tries to remember the face of his attacker, he feels dizzy. Dizzy is bad. Worse; it’s not physically dizzy. His blood has regenerated. He’s neither drunk nor too sober to cope with the task at hand. He even ate a fucking sandwich, made it while avoiding stepping in the sickening pool of blood in the kitchen. No. The dizzy is all in his head and his heart.

Alaric has died three times in the last few months – twice this month alone – and as much as he would like to think he’s tough as nails emotionally, he is fucking falling apart.

But this is not useful, so he sets it aside.

Deciding where to start is hell. Bloody handprints all over the walls, starting from the kitchen. He can’t even remember why he headed for the stairs.

“Phone,” he whispers to himself, like a reminder. His cell was upstairs. The house phone (which, he reminds himself, also needs to be cleaned – no fuck that, he’ll throw it out. There’s more than one) needs electricity and the power was out.

He starts in the kitchen. Leaves the floor, for now, because he can’t bear to look at the thickening slick of blood there. Cataloguing how much he lost before Elena killed him (and thank God for Elena, if God is actually out there, if God gives a fuck about any of them) makes Alaric feel physically ill.

He should change his clothes, he thinks. Drifts to the laundry room to get dirty sweats and a filthy t-shirt from the hamper. Throws his (stabbed) shirt in the trash and fills a bucket with cold water for the pants that are soaked with blood.

Alaric can’t remember the last time he cried. Knows he didn’t cry when Jenna died, but he came close. It was probably when Isobel… disappeared, he thinks, but he was so drunk for so long he’s not even sure about that.

Alaric wants to cry now.

But this is not useful, so he sets it aside.

After changing his clothes, ignoring the powerful tremor in his hands, Alaric goes back to the kitchen. Throws paper towels over the pool of blood on the floor that he can’t bear to think about yet and starts on the cupboard doors. A relatively easy job. They are sealed in linoleum, and clean up pretty easily, although by the time he has finished he has to pour out the bucket of water and refresh it.

The door jamb is next. Three handprints. Alaric studies them a moment, surprised at how big they are. Reminds himself he’s a big guy. Has big hands.

Should have been able to fight off whoever – whatever – it was that had stabbed him in the gut.

After cleaning all three handprints off the door jamb, Alaric returns to the kitchen to pour, and quickly drain, another glass of bourbon. Wishes he could afford better for himself, wishes Damon was here to scoff and pull something aged more than six months (perhaps something not brewed in a bathtub) out of nowhere.

Damon isn’t here and won’t be. Damon – and oh, the delicious fucking irony of this – is staying away, to keep Alaric safe.

Alaric leans against the kitchen bench for a long moment, and glances at the oven clock. Two fifteen. He replaces the water in the bucket and debates cleaning the floor. Decide the walls of the staircase need more urgent attention. Along with the askew frames, the bloody handprints make the Gilbert house look like the set of a really shitty horror flick.

Weird, how you can watch a horror movie and think everything looks fake… but then, yeah, when there are actual bloody handprints on the walls, they look just so.

Alaric washes the first handprint off the wall. Collects every drop of blood, and cleans two steps. Miraculously the third is clean. Dying, he’d been considerate enough to reduce his own burden by one whole step.

Another bucket of water. Alaric starts on the second handprint, and then sinks to the stairs. Puts his face in his hands. Stays that way for a long time.

He wishes Damon was there.

But this is not useful, so he sets it aside.

**

It’s nearly three in the morning when Damon gets sick of pacing in the library and dialling Alaric’s number over and over again. He’s actually starting to wonder if the whole plan might be a massive pile of shit.

The most obvious alternative to pacing is drinking, so Damon pours himself a glass of bourbon.

Bourbon doesn’t taste as sweet when there’s no one to drink it with.

“Fuck this,” he mutters to the empty room, and heads for the Gilbert house.

The door is unlocked, and Damon feels a flash of irritation. Granted the main threats to life and limb are supernatural, and therefore locks are superfluous; but there are, no doubt, human scumbags on the take in Mystic Falls as well.

Immediately on stepping into the house, the smell of Alaric’s blood threatens to overwhelm him. Instead, it sharpens his mind to flint.

“Hello?” Damon calls. Quieter than intended but deafening in the silent house. He takes a few steps inside, and is confronted by a nightmare.

Alaric is sitting in the stairwell. His face is spattered with blood, his hair sticking out at a funny angle. He looks as though he washed his face in the dark, frankly, and his clothes, while clearly not something anyone died in recently, have enough blood on them to qualify as filthy. He has a bucket full of bloody, soapy water at his feet.

“Jesus Christ, Ric…”

Alaric’s eyes flicker up, briefly, and then he stands, reaching for a towel submerged in the soapy water.

“What the fuck happened?”

Alaric’s face is slack. He shakes his head as if trying to clear cobwebs from it, but doesn’t speak. Damon takes a step forward, two.

This is bad. This is bad like the day after Alaric found out Isobel was dead was bad. Discovered he’d been compelled not to love her any more. He’s moving like a robot. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he’s wiped a congealed glob of blood across his forehead and hasn’t even noticed.

Damon takes in the rest of the scene; bloody boot prints on the stairs and on the floor, bloody handprints on the walls. Alaric shaking and shaking, and not noticing he’s doing it.

There’s a stone in Damon’s mouth, and he can’t dislodge it to speak. Takes another step forward instead.

Alaric is cleaning methodically; a broad sweep to collect the bulk of the mess, then rinse. A rub over the thinner, but much larger stain left behind, then another rinse. And then one last sweep. Rinse. Repeat.

Damon has no idea how long this takes, only that he has been standing at the foot of the stairs for long enough to watch Alaric do it twice. When Alaric lifts the bucket of water from the step and starts to descend the stairwell, Damon snaps from his reverie. Takes a couple of steps up, and reaches for the bucket.

Alaric finally meets his eyes.

“Where’s Elena?” Damon asks.

It is the exact wrong thing to say, apparently. Alaric flinches, and continues down the stairwell, without relinquishing the bucket. Crosses to the laundry to empty the bucket and refill it with clean water and more soap.

“She’s asleep, I hope,” he says dully. “Matt’s with her.”

“Why isn’t she helping?”

Alaric slumps against the counter. “Because she doesn’t need this,” he says, so quietly that if Damon was human, he would have had to ask him to repeat it.

Damon is lost. Reaches for the tap and turns it off. “Why didn’t you pick up your phone? I’ve been trying to call you for hours,” he asks, uselessly.

Apparently, this is the exact _right_ thing to say; Alaric looks almost pissed.

“Two reasons. One, you made it pretty clear you wouldn’t pick up if _I_ called _you_. Two, it’s dead. I bled all over it.” He reaches for the tap and turns it on again. Damon turns it off.

“Did you…” he can’t even say it. “Did you die again?”

Alaric turns the tap on. “Yes.”

Damon turns it off. “Ric…”

And with that, Alaric slumps to the floor, back against the wall, a greying mop head at his hip, half sitting on a pair of Jeremy’s old rain boots. Puts his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

Damon crouches in front of him. Closes his hands around Alaric’s ankles.

“Go away, Damon,” Alaric groans. “I can’t deal with you tonight. I have to finish cleaning before Elena gets up.”

“Ric. What. Happened? Who killed you?”

Alaric leans back against the wall, losing his balance a little. Closes his eyes. “Elena did.”

Because this makes no sense, Damon blinks several times.

Alaric opens his eyes. “I don’t know who broke into the house and stabbed me but I know Elena came home and I made her kill me. So the ring would work. Fuck. Worst guardian ever. I mean. Fuck.” Alaric slumps his head forward again, rests his forehead on his knees.

“She’s pretty tough,” is all Damon can think to say.

Alaric snaps his head up. “What are you doing here?”

Damon gapes for a moment. “I came to make sure you’re alright.”

Alaric nods. “I’m alright. Go. This definitely falls outside of your plan.” He starts to climb to his feet.

“Clearly,” Damon answers, holding Alaric down by his shoulder, “My plan is a total failure regardless. The idea was to keep you safe.”

Alaric shrugs him off. “Just go, Damon. Seriously. I’m unkillable. Focus on Elena. Focus on Stefan. Just stick with the plan and stay the fuck away from me.”

Says it with such force that Damon actually recoils, and lets Alaric get to his feet. Alaric turns the tap on again, pouring soap into the bucket. Leaves the laundry, heading for the stairs.

Damon has almost never felt more useless.

(The plan had been to stay away for long enough to stop Alaric from becoming a target. Bad enough Klaus was gunning for Elena; he didn’t need any more leverage and Alaric was the only person Damon trusted to keep Elena safe.

Alaric was the only other person Damon cared about enough to make a plan for.

There was no room in the plan for someone outside of the Original family to be gunning for him.)

Blurring across the room, Damon stands in front of Alaric and takes the bucket.

“Listen to me, Ric…”

“I’m listening to you.” Alaric’s eyes are wide and dull.

Damon feels suddenly cold.

Compulsion had not been his intention. Clearly, Damon is more upset than he thinks he is, and Alaric more exhausted. And Alaric isn’t wearing his bracelet. And he hasn’t drunk vervain since…

Well.

Damon thinks hard. He could just take it all away, tell Alaric to feel fine. Tell him to take a shower, wash his hair, go to bed.

Damon sighs. “Snap out of it, Ric,” he said, and Alaric blinks.

“Did you just compel me? What the hell, Damon? I thought we had a deal!”

Damon shakes his head, taking the bucket. “It was an accident. I didn’t make you do anything.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Do you feel any better?”

Alaric takes a moment to think. “No. I fuckin’ don’t.” He stumbles, and Damon catches him. Catches him and holds him hard, holds him up. Holds him tight until Alaric slumps against Damon and wraps his arms around him.

“I’m tired,” Alaric whispers. “I don’t…”

Damon is good at all sorts of things. Plotting and scheming and coaxing anyone he wants into bed. He can cook (a skill developed partly out of boredom and partly as a means of coaxing anyone he wants into bed). His penmanship is second to none.

He has next to no experience putting someone back together when they’ve been broken.

Scenes from films flash through his head, but none seem relevant.

Alaric is pliant in Damon’s arms as Damon leads him up the stairs. Into the bathroom off Alaric’s room. “You need a shower. You need to wash all the blood off.” Damon turns on the tap in the shower, gets the temperature right.

Looks doubtfully at Alaric. “Can you…?”

“Fuck off, Damon,” Alaric says, irritable.

Irritable is good, so Damon leaves. Hovers at the door for a moment and descends the stairs again.

First priority is the floor in the kitchen, so Damon mops and cleans and replaces the water, over and over, until there is nothing left to mop. The footsteps on the staircase are next, and far easier.

As he gets to the top of the steps, he realises the shower is still running.

Why, oh why, did he have to fall for a human again?

Cautious, he opens the bathroom door. Alaric is sitting on the floor in the shower, fully dressed. Damon groans. At least Alaric’s hair is clean. Damon turns the shower off, and it seems to rouse Alaric sufficiently to look up.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. Damon helps him to his feet, starts to pull his shirt over his head. Alaric complies, until he realises what’s going on and roughly pushes Damon aside.

“Fuck off, Damon. Don’t treat me like a child.” Alaric pulls the shirt over his head and then stills again.

Okay, clearly the wrong approach. Damon gets rough. Pushes Alaric against the wall, holds him still. “Your clothes are wet. Take them off or I’ll make you take them off.”

The aggression seems to rouse Alaric, and he pushes Damon out the door.

Much better.

A moment later, Alaric half steps, half stumbles out of the bathroom, somewhat dry and with a towel wrapped around his hips, and Damon leads him toward the bed.

“Aren’t you supposed to be staying away from me?” Alaric snarks, but when Damon pulls the covers back, he strips off the towel and climbs under them. Damon toes off his shoes, strips off his clothes. “And you’re seriously thinking about sex right now?”

Damon grimaces. “No. I’m not.” He climbs into the bed alongside Alaric.

Their usual sleeping dynamic is Damon with his head on Alaric’s chest. That’s not going to cut it right now. Once under the covers, Damon draws Alaric to his side and wraps him tight against his body. Alaric resists, but Damon holds tight, until at last, Alaric slumps in his arms.

“I hate you,” Alaric says, voice muffled against Damon’s chest.

“Yeah. I hate me too,” Damon agrees. “Bad plan.” He rubs a soft kiss into Alaric’s wet hair, and feels a degree of relief when Alaric stretches an arm across his chest.

“’m sick of gettin’ killed.”

“I’m sick of it too.”

“Can’t believe I made Elena stab me to death. Worst fuckin’…”

“Worst guardian ever would have let himself die and left her alone. Left me alone.” Damon rubs circles into Alaric’s shoulder with his hand. “I suck at this.”

“What? Negotiating peace treaties between psychotic vampires?”

Damon pulls Alaric a little closer. “Looking after someone. Being a good… whatever the fuck we are.”

Alaric is silent a long time. “You’re doin’ alright.”

Damon chuckles mirthlessly, and they are still a long time. “What are we, Ric?”

“You really gonna choose now to define the relationship?”

“No.” Damon doesn’t add _just wondering what it is I’m going to lose, if I lose you_. “Just sleep, Ric.”

 

**

 

By the time Alaric wakes up, Damon has cleaned away the rest of the blood and cooked breakfast; and maybe everything is still completely fucked, but it’s a little less fucked than it was last night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Head-canon: Elena isn't a horrible person. Alaric told her to go to bed because she was upset and he promised they wouldn't clean up the blood until the next day.


End file.
